From River to Ocean
by mykelara
Summary: This is a collection of Broadchurch shorts written for prompts by the tumblr blog 'timepetalsprompts'. Each chapter fulfills a different prompt adding Alec Hardy's POV to scenes of the show. I will post them as I go.
1. Cornflowers

**A/N:** This short story is part of a collection of prompted drabbles (well sort of drabbles as some of them are longer than 100 words) which I'll be posting as I do them... The prompts are from the tumblr blog 'timepetalsprompts' - this one was 'Summer haze'. A memory wafts by… (set in S01x02).

A gift for alectheta… because she knows about cornflowers.

* * *

 **Cornflowers**

His brows puckered, Hardy eyed the milky mist that rose from the thick carpet of luscious green grass and pink sea thrift on top of the cliffs. It bathed his ankles in a cool moist, crawling up his bare legs under his trousers and down into his shoes to the very tip of his toes. A clammy feeling settled in within heartbeats, and Hardy resisted the urge to shake himself like a wet dog.

 _Bloody sea._

Moaning in disgust, he trudged on. Sleep had made a hasty departure after he woke up drowning at the break of dawn. He'd decided to walk Danny's paper round to exorcise the ghosts of dead children. The grey hours of the morning welcomed him with solitude and silence, only broken by the relentless sound of waves crashing against the shore deep below.

Squinting at the scribbled map, an unexpected scent of cornflowers, yarrows, and ripening wheat wafted past him, reminding Hardy of seemingly endless and happy summers spent in the countryside.

Stock-still, Hardy closed his eyes, sucking in the faint memory of days long gone by. Laughing faces of Daisy and even Tess, softened by the summer haze, flickered by and away together with the gentle breeze that had brought the longing smell of summer.

When he opened his eyes, they stung. He told himself it was the harsh gust of wind from the sea that had rudely driven away the lingering daydream. With his nose full of salt and wind, Hardy returned to his here and now of another lost soul and wandered on in his lonely quest for redemption.


	2. Fading

**A/N:** This short story is part of a collection of prompted drabbles (well sort of drabbles as some of them are longer than 100 words) which I'll be posting as I do them... The prompts are from the tumblr blog timepetalspropmts - this one was 'Tan Lines'

Some late night during Broadchurch Series 1… Ellie Miller threatens to throw a cup of piss at her boss…

* * *

 **Fading**

Alec Hardy peered through his office door to see what Miller was up to. It had gotten late again. It didn't matter to him as nothing was waiting in the drab hotel room but his pills, a familiar nightmare, and Pippa's ghost. Guilt smoldered in his stomach. Yet another night that he'd kept Miller away from her family.

He moved in his chair so he could take a better look at her. She was staring at her screen. He hazarded a guess that she was watching her son's interview.

A furrow dug its way onto her forehead, driven by the grief over what Hardy had made her son endure. He'd felt like an arse, having to question a young boy like that. However, there wasn't anyone else but him in this god-forsaken town who was better qualified.

For a fleeting moment he wished he'd have it in him to walk over and tell Miller how well he could relate. How the case of a murdered child that was so much like one's own gnawed on one's soul. His heart tripped over Pippa's memory and thudded against his rib cage. He surreptitiously gagged down a couple of his pills together with the lump that had formed in his throat.

Blinking away the river water that still stung his eyes, the focus of his vision racked from far away back onto Miller. She passed her hand down her neckline, tugging down her blouse, just far enough to reveal the already fading sharp line between reddish-brown skin and her natural paler complexion. A remnant of the undoubtedly happy summer holiday she had returned from not even a week ago. Her world had changed since then.

Sniffing, he pushed up his glasses and forced himself to bury his own emotional turmoil deep inside. Concentrating on the task ahead, he reluctantly pulled up Danny's autopsy report. A memory of Pippa's file flashed by, and the nausea caused by his medications worsened.

He stared at the photographs of Danny's dead body without truly seeing them. The only thing he seemed to be able to take in was the stark contrast between the tanned skin of a child who frequently played under the hot summer sun and the milky white of the unexposed areas of the body. He squeezed his eyes shut in a feeble attempt to rid himself of the images that blended with a bronzed Daisy, skipping over a sandy beach.

His head twitched and he groaned quietly.

 _Pull yourself together Hardy,_ he ordered himself. They were working a job, as he had told Miller.

Restlessness got the better of him. Something had to give. He swiveled on his chair and jumped up.

"Millah!" he hollered, plucking off his glasses and rubbing his tired eyes.

His long steps took him quickly to her workstation, leaving her barely any time to hide what she'd been looking at. A brief flash of satisfaction that he still hadn't lost his observational skills washed over Hardy when he caught a glimpse of her screen right before she closed the window with the video.

He sucked in air through his nose and shared his plan.

"Reconstruction. Thursday night, one week on." He nodded, reaffirming to himself what he believed to be the right thing to do.

Miller gave him a noncommittal stare.

"Your boy Tom, he should do it."

Her blank face changed immediately.

"What? No, I don't want him to," she denied firmly and with a growing scowl.

"No, he's the best choice," Hardy insisted.

A spark glowed in her eyes. "Did you not hear what I just said?"

He had, but chose to ignore it together with the voice that told him this was wrong.

In a rapid spitfire, Miller continued, "He's just lost his best friend. That could traumatize him for life."

"Maybe he should be allowed to decide," Hardy argued, hoping that her son would have more courage than her. He needed him to. Besides, he wondered if the boy was maybe longing for an opportunity to do something for his dead friend.

"No," Miller stated firmly. "I'm his _mum_ , I decide."

Desperation got the better of Hardy. "Oh, so your commitment to this investigation stops outside these doors?"

It was an unfair accusation. He had no reason to doubt her commitment. Her instincts to protect her child were not different from his own. Considering how far he'd gone to assure that his daughter was safe, he should have been awarded a medal for hypocrisy. He'd give whatever he had left in him though not to fail again.

Her expression tensed. Hardy observed her quietly, intrigued by how far she might go this time to insult him.

"With respect Sir, move away from me now or…" - she turned to face him and her brown fiery eyes pierced through him - "… I will piss in a cup and throw it at you," she snarled.

Hardy's face didn't flinch, he didn't even blink. He had to give her an 'A' for creativity. A seemingly never-ending line of people had showered him with flowery language in his past, especially after the Sandbrook murders, but this was a first. She didn't take his bullshit shtick as she had called it, and he respected her for that.

Regardless of ingenuity, it pearled off of him like water on an oily surface. Somewhere deep inside, he wanted to dare her, coax it out of her, and make her lose all pretense. He enjoyed the banter way too much. It had been a while since he'd had someone to face off with.

His level voice reflected none of this. "Talk to…," he trailed off, as always struggling to recollect a person's name.

Miller tossed down the pen she'd been playing with and put her forehead in her palms. A prime example of how he drove people up the wall. He ploughed on, deliberately ignoring her annoyance.

"What's your husband's name - Joe? Talk to him about it. And Tom," he added softly.

Her next move took him utterly by surprise. Balling her hands into fist, she avoided his gaze.

"You're invited for dinner," she groaned between gritted teeth.

That was the last thing he'd expected and it threw him off more than any insults could ever have.

"What?" he squeaked incredulously. He'd been a pariah for so long now that it had never occurred to him that someone might be willing to give up their precious time to have him around.

"Pick a night," she instructed him exasperatedly. When she turned to face him, there was an intimidating glow in her eyes.

His brain was still catching up with the fact that she had actually asked him to come to dinner.

"At your house?" he clarified with a mortified undertone.

She stared him down.

"Why?"

It didn't make any sense. Why on earth would she want for him to taint the sanctity of her home? Especially after his encounter with Tom earlier that day.

"Do you know many people here?" she quizzed him, wearing an expression that reminded him of Daisy when she deemed something he'd said or done as utterly daft.

"No," he muttered, disbelief and horror warring inside.

"Are you living off hotel food?"

She was building her case well. If his dodgy heart wasn't already a ticking time bomb, the artery-clogging food at the Traders would certainly do him in. The idea of a home-cooked meal provoked instant longing, and he feared that she might have heard that treacherous gurgle in his empty stomach yearning for a decent bite to eat. Regardless, his mind was on autopilot, trying to avoid the inevitable.

"'S not a good idea," he wheezed meekly.

It really wasn't. He couldn't allow himself to get too close to anyone, especially not a colleague. Not after what happened back home. He cringed inwardly. No, not home. Not any more.

Miller was oblivious of his struggle and went on, "Oh, please. Don't be an arsehole about it. Believe me I don't want to do it either, but it's what people do."

"Is it?" he croaked.

If _'people'_ did it, that was a sure indication that he should not be doing it.

"Yes!" Her frustration with his stubborn refusal was evident. "They have their bosses round. We don't have talk about work."

 _Christ._ She had covered all the bases. He made a last ditch effort to wiggle himself out of it.

"What would we talk about?"

"I don't know!" she exclaimed, ready to probably throw that cup of piss at him after all. "Just say yes," she demanded with those fierce eyes trained at him.

Hardy stared at her, wide-eyed and dumbfounded by his own quite ardent desire to accept the invitation. His loneliness had grown over the past weeks, and Claire certainly couldn't fill the void his hasty departure from Sandbrook had left him with.

Miller had been relentless and resistance was futile.

"Yeah."

There it was. One single word that made trepidation creep into every cell of his body.

"Thank you. Bloody hell!" she cursed wholeheartedly, relieved she'd finally coaxed a confirmation out of him.

Hardy pressed his lips to a thin line to hide a smile. He'd have to call himself a liar if he denied that her invitation hadn't touched him. He doubted her motivation was more than social convention, but it didn't matter. Most people hadn't even granted him that after Ashworth's trial had blown up in his face. Miller's offer to share a meal with him and her family had been one of the kindest things that had happened to him in a while.

On his way back to his office, he heard a muttered "Knob."

This time, he didn't hide the grin, although she wouldn't see it. He crossed off 'knob' from his mental checklist of insults that Miller had been giving him and plopped down on his chair.

Then it hit him. He'd have to bring something. Because that's what people did.

 _Bollocks._

* * *

 **A/N:** I gifted this work to Halfaslug as I love her Broadchurch stories dearly... thanks for writing them.  
And to KTRose for always listening and being there!


	3. Chiseled

**A/N:** This short story is part of a collection of prompted drabbles (well sort of drabbles as some of them are longer than 100 words) which I'll be posting as I do them... The prompts are from the tumblr blog 'timepetalsprompts' - this one was 'Relief' – I tried to do something different with it… and at the same time still keep the spirit (set in S02x01).

A gift for Lizann5869… because she found the image for it.

* * *

 **Chiseled**

Alec Hardy tossed his glasses carelessly on top of the letter that had sealed his fate. In a few weeks' time all of this would end, either way.

His heavy feet shuffled into the bathroom, following a routine his tired brain didn't need to pay attention to any longer. It had become second nature. One hand reached for the glass, the other turned on the faucet to fill it with water. The pill packet appeared in his palm, after being fished from the depths of his trouser pockets without him taken notice. He pushed two tablets out of the plastic blisters and tossed them into his mouth. A swig of water washed them down, leaving only a lingering bitter tang that served as a reminder of how distasteful his existence had become.

Arms stretched out, he braced himself on the sink and leaned forward, closer toward the mirror. The reflection of a man he barely recognized stared back at him. His face bore the marks of his perpetual struggle to keep afloat. Deep lines carved grooves under his orbits, trailing down to his mouth. The many crinkles budding from the corner of his eyes that used to speak of smiles and joy were now chiseled into his face, giving rise to a relief of sorrow and pain. Freckles once telling a tale of happy days spent in the sun stood out in his sickly pale complexion.

Hardy couldn't tear away his gaze, despite the profound discomfort the image evoked in him. He was too exhausted to keep ignoring the truth that stared bluntly in his face. There was still some fight in him left though. Joe Miller's case management hearing was today, and with a guilty plea Hardy could perhaps find the smallest bit of atonement for all his many wrongdoings.

The jarring ring of his mobile jolted him out of his reverie, reminding him of the world around him. With a last glance at the stranger in the mirror, he willed himself to face another day, holding on desperately to the last bits of the man who used to look back at him.


End file.
